Page 51 of My Lucky Charm

“Uh,” still not looking at him. “Hey. Hi. Morning.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and I have to look at him because I can’t tell by two simple words if I’m done for.

When I meet his eyes, I see him watching me—really watching me—and my stomach swoops like it just took a flying leap off a skyscraper.

I start to pull the sweatshirt down even lower, hoping it will encase my whole body, turn into a teleportation pod, and zap me to the other side of the planet.

“I wasn’t listening, I just—”

“Slept in my bed.”

I snap my jaw shut. I open it just enough to squeak out, “Yeah, I did do that” and then clamp it shut again.

His eyebrow quirks ever so slightly.

“I was—” I wince. “Do you want to hear the reason why?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Sure.”

Crap.

“Oh. I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

Another slight raise of his eyebrow.

“So, I got some things for your apartment.”

He nods. “I noticed.”

I want to pause and ask how he likes them, and did he think the throw pillows warmed up the place as much as I did, but I figure this probably isn’t the best time.

“And a few of those things were for your room,” I say. “And then I was curious about the game, so I flipped on the television and—” I realize in that exact moment that silence would’ve been a much better option.

He straightens his shoulders, and his face draws back a little.

“You saw the press conference.”

“Just a bit of it.” It’s a lie, and I assume he knows that by the look on his face. “Okay, so maybe all of it. And then I wanted to see what other people were saying about it, so I started watching the post-game, then I guess I dozed off? My mattress has a spring sticking up out of it, so I have to sort of curve my body around it so it doesn’t poke me all night. It’s been a while since I slept on something so comfortable.” I look away. “Gosh, that sounded pathetic.” Then, back to him. “I’m really sorry I slept in your bed. It will never happen again.”

He narrows his eyes, gives me a once-over, shakes his head, and then turns and walks back into the kitchen.

“Wait, are you angry?” I follow after him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were. It’s a big invasion of your personal space. I crossed a line. A big line.” I glance down in the sink and see the empty glass container from one of the meals Poppy prepped for him. “Oh! You ate the pasta!”

It makes me infinitely happy that he ate one of the meals I packed up for him. “How was it?”

He looks at me. “You talk a lot.”

“And you don’t talk at all,” I quip, and then I go quiet.

The silence lasts all of four and a half seconds, and I blurt out, “I didn’t mean that to sound mean. I know you don’t talk. A lot. Or ever. And I know I talk a lot, it’s the only way you can get to know someone, you know? It can be annoying, or whatever, but I talk when I’m nervous or when I really want someone to like me.”

He tilts his head with a question on his face.

I want to crawl in a hole.

“I . . .” I stutter, “I didn’t mean . . .”

He pours a cup of coffee and hands it out to me. I look at it like I’m an alien who’s never seen coffee before.

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